Featured Poems

Desert Summer

by on June 25, 2019 :: 0 comments

A child draws a picture with
blue skies and green fields
giant flowers and clouds like cotton candy
and in the corner, a sun,
its rays stretching out to cover the land
smiling face gazing benignly down, happy
to be bringing life to all in its
two-dimensional world.
In my tiny slice of hell the sun
is not like that.
If it was I wouldn’t hide in the summer
like a giant mole or
a resident of that underground city in
My sun fools you, lulling you with
cool mornings, the clean scents of
desert sage and orange monkey flower
filling the air.
The whole neighborhood seeming to hold its collective breath
until, in that final moment,
Sol crawls over the San Jacintos,
magma fingers clutching the summit,
perching there, a slavering beast, before
it flips a switch and
turns the pavement into pools of melting tar
flames dancing a merry jig,
as it turns the whole into Gehenna.

editors note:

Yeah, but it’s a dry heat. (We welcome Mike to our crazy congress of Contributing Poets with this submission. Read more of his madness on his new page – check it out.) – mh clay

No Biggie

by on June 24, 2019 :: 0 comments

The beginning of now
was not a big deal
yet upon its passing
it had no real demise
now continued
with then
so they put them
together with
now and then
that’s just the way it is.

editors note:

“And” is ever enough for now… – mh clay

The Day Bob Dylan Wept

by on June 23, 2019 :: 0 comments

Contrary to popular belief, I’ve found.
Either Nothing or Everything is to be write for everyone,
Not that, as a group, generalizations have ever been believed,
But opinions can’t stop the “moving finger” writing.

Knowing all there’s to know about how young birds fly
We jump off the cliff, melt our wings and we die.
It’s just like creating what they’ll call fine art.
Bones drifting in water are beauty. A start.

DADA and the rest of Philosophy sit in the sweating house.
The latter might care while the former’s indifferent.
Which is exactly why DADA thrives in our souls.
Rejection can be what is first or last…or should be.

So, sit on the campfire and sing with us,
To see if your song is blowing out or in the wind.

editors note:

Bob can sing it, like no other, But, who’s your DADA, who’s your mother? – mh clay


by on June 22, 2019 :: 0 comments

A small bag
A torch
A tin box and pipe

These are the tools

To present my past
To rescind the guilt
To connect to the source
Of what I am not

Some call it magic
An other

But names are misplaced
On this false print of paths
And easily pierced
By their own savage thorns

Forget about this
And leave behind that

Crossing the bridge
Flies buzz on the burn

Kill the mind child
Return this earth to the dust

editors note:

The magic we make, in time, unmakes us. Naturally! – mh clay

My Grizzled Poem

by on June 21, 2019 :: 1 comment

Scratching pencil stub
Words fractured in lead
Not the grit I need
Scraping marks
Crevices and cracks
The page is bruised
And words abuse
Galvanized gray and smear

I strip them of discontent voice
Erasing legacies
I wipe away the crumbs
Letting each syllable
Every silenced sound fall
Landing just above ground
Whisper or scream

editors note:

Creative carnage; the mess we make to dis away from enchantment. – mh clay

The Leveling Reaper

by on June 20, 2019 :: 0 comments

If death comes earlier than expected,
you’re sure you could easily handle it.
You think this would free yourself from burden,
you reckon extinction is the new thing.
It will come soon enough so please don’t beg
for it to come this way as relieving as it seems.

Her breasts prick the sight of the saints,
her breath is stale, it smells rot and decay,
her legs are hairier than a palm-tree trunk,
the tool she carries around with her slices
heads, limbs, torsos, anything goes.
Her unforeseeable eyes pierce through the dark.

She does see you quiver in your corner,
she laughs, she trembles with ecstasy,
she leaves the place softly, she leaves
you quizzical. She leaves permanent
stains behind, tumours in fat brains,
her restless rumours never wane.

editors note:

Fast or slow; she comes, but you never get to know her. – mh clay

Sharing Wrinkles

by on June 19, 2019 :: 0 comments

I once held your hand of enthralling silk
caressed by the early light of a newly born world.

You recall the tall blades of mysterious grass
the refuge of those days of tender innocence.

We shared what they call youth in novels
a fantasy written upon a tombstone to be carved soon.

I saw the whispering of trembling hours
scribing their harsh embrace with a blunt knife.

You remained still with majestic stoicism
under the chisel of the unproven sculptor.

We fell to flashes of stars blinding the nights
their gentle sparks burning our breasts with fear.

I held your soul into my palms to make it safe
while the agony of life shocked every fiber of you.

You opened your eyes with accepting despair
drowned in the sorrow of the upcoming storm.

We took another step under the leathery coat
ready to share our farewells beneath wrinkly flesh.

– Fabrice B. Poussin

editors note:

What we would spare for one happens to all. – mh clay